What Is Your Connection To Sherlock Holmes?
by starrysummernights
Summary: Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was just nipping down to the corner to buy cigarettes when he was forced into the back of a black car and driven to an old, abandoned building. There he meets a mysterious young man who asks him one question: What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes? Mystrade.
1. An Unexpected Meeting

"_What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes_?"

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade glared at the posh looking young man in front of him who, unconcerned at the dark look being leveled at him, leaned casually on his umbrella and smiled pleasantly back at him. Greg's eyes narrowed as that creepy smile widened and he wondered for the umpteenth time just who the hell this man was. The crazy git was acting as if they were old acquaintances meeting for a casual talk and not as if he had had Greg abducted an hour earlier from a street corner in broad daylight.

Greg had just been nipping down the corner for cigarettes- the first time he had left his flat in almost a week- the most harrowing week of his life- when a black, unmarked car had pulled alongside him and he had been forced into the backseat. The doors had locked behind him and a pleasantly smiling young woman had refused to answer his angrily shouted questions about where he was being taken and who had abducted him. She hadn't seemed scared of having an irate, shouting Detective Inspector seated across from her in the backseat and had instead kept her eyes glued to a Blackberry, on which she was typing at lightning fast speed. Greg, sizing her up, had deemed her non-threatening and so had turned his attention to more pressing matters.

Staring out the windows had proved impossible as the tint was so dark Greg was unable to recognize the streets and landmarks of London as they drove past. It was obvious he was being taken somewhere, possibly to be murdered once there, and Greg had silently and quickly taken stock of the resources available to him.

He'd left his mobile back at the flat and had nothing on him except his keys and wallet. Years of training had kicked in, though, and he knew he was prepared to fight if threatened. His keys could be used as a weapon but he should not draw attention to them until it was time, in case they were taken. He only hoped he was not horribly outnumbered.

The sleek car had driven for about thirty minutes before it pulled up in front of an old, decrepit looking office building near a rusty and disused railroad track.

The doors had opened and the girl hadn't even looked up from her mobile.

"We're here." She announced, getting out first and then motioning Greg to follow.

He had hesitated and she sighed, looking up briefly from her Blackberry and offering Greg a small smile.

"There's no use resisting, Detective Inspector."

Greg had weighed his options and the girl had continued to type away on her Blackberry, obviously leaving the decision up to him. Finally, resigned, Greg had climbed from the car and followed her into the building.

Now, standing in front of the sophisticated looking man in his expensive suit and creepy smile, Greg thought of drug rings and pimps and other unsavory criminal masterminds. He'd made a lot of enemies over his police career and no doubt there were many people who'd like to see him killed- and tortured for a long time before. He didn't recognize the young man but it was possible he'd been hired or was avenging a family member who'd been arrested at some point.

Staring into those deceptively amiable eyes, Greg seriously wondered if he would be murdered and his body left to rot in this dirty building in the middle of nowhere.

No doubt Sherlock could solve the case, though, and that thought, oddly enough, cheered him.

"I do hate to repeat myself, Detective Inspector." A small bite of annoyance crept into the younger man's voice at Greg's continued silence and Greg felt a tendril of unease skate up his spine. "_What_ is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

Considering the question the man was asking, it was beginning to be obvious this encounter had more to do with _Sherlock_ than any grudge held against _Greg_. There was a sinking feeling in Greg's abdomen as he realized this, and also as he realized that the man in front of him was no doubt very dangerous if he was in any way connected with Sherlock.

"Our connection is none of your damn business." He responded harshly, clenching his fists, deciding toughness and anger would work well in this situation. He was already well on the way to being really pissed off and the stupid, smiling prat was just pushing him closer to the edge.

"So stupidly foolish." The young man smirked. "I already know he has moved into your flat and hasn't left for the past seven days." The smile melted off his face, leaving him looking both cold and very dangerous. "_What_ is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"Fuck off." Greg said, anger spiking, adrenaline beginning to course through his veins. The man had been spying on him if he knew Sherlock was staying at his flat. That in itself told him the man was of an unsavory sort. "It's none of your damn business what our _connection_ is. Leave him the fuck alone." He took a menacing step forward that made the younger man's eyes glitter dangerously.

"You've always been ambitious for an officer, risen up the ranks through hard work, sweat and blood, quick wit and long hours. Divorced, sacrificed even your marriage for your career- or perhaps it would have happened anyway, considering your wife is a serial adulterer and you harbor latent homosexual tendencies. You currently have partial custody of your children but only see them twice a month. An upstanding Detective Inspector with so much to lose…are you _really_ willing to risk all that for a brief fling with a strung out junkie?"

Greg snarled in rage at the man's words. His entire body vibrated with anger and fury at the young man in front of him, so cool and poised and collected. No doubt he had been of Sherlock's suppliers- and no doubt Sherlock owed him money- and Greg wanted to punch him in the face for selling Sherlock the drugs that made him scream and beg Greg for more.

He shuddered when he remembered the previous night- Sherlock clawing at his own skin, feverishly screaming that there were bugs everywhere, his pretty blue eyes wide and manic, aware of nothing, not even seeing Greg or his surroundings. When it had finally got too much to bear, he had offered Greg anything for more cocaine- money, sexual favors, promises of helping with more cases at the Yard- anything just to make Greg go out and get more, more, more, please, Greg, please get more!

Greg had been a police officer for most of his life and he had seen junkies. He knew he couldn't entirely blame the supplier for Sherlock's addiction. The blame rested on Sherlock for starting to take the damn drugs in the first place- but he could still hate them, and hate what they represented. And he hated the young man in front of him who seemed so well-put together and upper class, calm and full of himself- when he knew Sherlock was back at his flat because he had nowhere else to go except the streets, shaking and scratching at his skin as he lay on Greg's sofa.

"Sherlock is none of your fucking business anymore." Greg hissed. "I'm not either. And Sherlock won't be buying any more cocaine from you. Ever again. So stay the hell away from both of us."

"Do you intend to be his new supplier?" The voice was cool. "Allowing him to exchange sexual favors for his next hit?"

Greg felt fresh anger sweep through him, narrowing his vision. "It's not like that."

"Isn't it? What _is_ it like then, Detective Inspector? From my knowledge of Sherlock he is well known to exchange sexual favors if the person in question supplies him with his drug of choice-"

Greg launched himself at the stupid, smiling prat but before he could wrap his hands around his expensive suit, the umbrella came up and the pointed tip pressed warningly against Greg's neck. He gasped at the sharp stab of pain and felt blood trickle down his collarbone.

"That would not be wise, Detective Inspector. Are you defending Sherlock's _honor_?" There was derisive laughter from the young man that made Greg see red.

"Leave him alone, Mycroft."

Greg jerked in surprise at the sound of Sherlock's voice and he saw the man in front of him- Mycroft, he assumed- widen his eyes and jump as well. Greg felt another trickle of blood down his chest.

"_Sherlock_." Mycroft's voice didn't betray the surprise he felt at seeing the other man. "I wasn't expecting to see you."

Mycroft didn't add he hadn't seen his brother in person in almost five months. He'd been able to track most of Sherlock's activities through his cameras but when Sherlock lost his flat and become homeless, Mycroft had been unable to find him even on CCTV. He knew Sherlock was avoiding the cameras on purpose but that hadn't stopped Mycroft searching, worried and anxious.

When Sherlock had finally emerged from the shadows at a crime scene, obviously out of his head, and then followed the Detective Inspector back to his flat, Mycroft had felt both relief that his brother was still alive and sick. Sherlock had looked horrible, thin and gaunt, unkempt, obviously on the decline.

"I saw the car and knew it was yours." Sherlock's voice was still posh and arrogant but beneath the bravado was a slight wobble that made Greg's stomach tighten. "I followed you here."

"The Detective Inspector and I were having a nice little chat."

Sherlock's wide, bloodshot eyes flicked from the pointed umbrella tip still drawing blood against Greg's neck and Greg's frozen posture.

"As I can see. Leave him _alone_, Mycroft." He spat and the umbrella was suddenly gone and Sherlock's emaciated, shaky hand was wrapping around Greg's wrist and dragging him away from the other man.

"I should have known you were still spying on me."

Greg could feel Sherlock's body trembling with chills beside him and he cursed the stupid git in front of him that Sherlock was out of the flat because of him. He should still be on the sofa where Greg had left him, reading over old case files and solving them with apparent zeal, sometimes with little more than the blink of an eye. Greg had been desperate to occupy Sherlock's mind with _something_ to take it away from the cocaine withdrawals and Sherlock solved the cases with such obvious enthusiasm. A week later and it was still working. The thornier the problem, the more excited Sherlock got, and the better Greg felt as case after case was solved. He felt as if the world were just a bit brighter when there was less scum in it.

"Ah, _yes_. I know you intruded onto the Detective Inspector's crime scene, made your deductions, and helped him solve the case in less than an hour. You then asked for cocaine as repayment and instead of throwing you in jail, the _kind-hearted_ Inspector brought you back to his flat and there you have remained for the past week, selling yourself for your drug of choice." Mycroft's cool eyes flicked over Sherlock's frame and his eyebrows rose, his voice betraying shock. "Though perhaps I have been mistaken. It has been exactly eight days since you last used."

Sherlock shuddered beside Greg, pained it had been that long without the drug that had become his life in the past few years. He didn't need reminding of how long it had been. His inability to sleep, to turn his mind off, to stop the feeling of millions of insects crawling all over his skin reminded him every second. His body was _screaming_ for another hit but he knew Lestrade wouldn't let him- and he'd promised Sherlock crime scenes, promised he could work with the police on a freelance basis if he got clean.

It would be worth it.

"It's none of your business." Sherlock spat, though his voice lacked conviction as another chill wracked his body. "_My life_ is none of your business."

"Who is this fucker?" Greg asked angrily, knowing better than to reach out to Sherlock but still pressing closer to him, letting everyone know whose fucking side he was on.

"My brother, Mycroft." Sherlock said, venom lacing his voice and his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Wha- your _brother_, _really_?" Greg asked, staring in disbelief from Sherlock to Mycroft. They looked almost nothing alike unless one factored in being posh and arrogant and bloody tall. Sherlock nodded jerkily and his eyes keen as they swept over Mycroft's frame.

"You've gained fifteen pounds since I last saw you." He alleged, smirking, and Greg watched as Mycroft's face flushed, pink decorating his high cheekbones.

"Still as childish as ever, Sherlock. Do you not understand that I am doing all this for your benefit? That I want to _help_ you?"

"You don't want to help me. It's not for me. It's never been for _me_." Sherlock said, his voice low and angry, taking a step towards Mycroft. "It's always about _you_. You're afraid I'll do something reckless and endanger your precious _career_." He spat at Mycroft, taking another step forward and Greg caught him by the arm. Sherlock jerked away irritably but made no further move towards his brother, though he continued to glare at him, breathing heavily through his nose.

Sherlock was riding a crest of anger and emotions and memories which seeing his brother again had inspired.

None of them were good or happy and in that moment he hated his brother with every fiber of his being as he flicked through the memories and the resulting emotions rapidly, hoping to reach the end and slam the door shut on that time in his life. It was too hard controlling his emotions, being the cold and unreachable person Mycroft had taught him to be, when his body was screaming for more cocaine and he felt as if he were about to vibrate out of his skin. His mind was tearing itself to pieces, dredging up old memories, conversations that were useless, pointless facts and random faces, and he was turning inward on himself, unable to concentrate on anything.

He wanted the drugs.

He wished he were back at Greg's small flat. There he had a comfortable sofa and stacks of cold cases to occupy his mind with. Greg would watch something stupid and mindless on the telly and yell at Sherlock when he made fun of it- then start laughing at what Sherlock had said. Greg would chivvy him off the sofa and make him help fix dinner, force him to eat, be the strong person Sherlock couldn't when the withdrawals become too much… He just wanted to go back there.

The way Sherlock felt was made worse by the fact that Mycroft was watching him with those cold eyes, eyes that always saw everything and could deduce Sherlock's entire history in one quick sweep from head to feet. He knew what Mycroft was seeing, knew what he was deducing, and could feel the judgment emanating from his brother. He felt shame flare to life deep in his gut, but it was quickly eclipsed by the ever present need for _more cocaine_.

Greg Lestrade was different though. He trusted Greg Lestrade. There was something about the man that called to Sherlock and he liked him.

Greg cursed and drank and shouted at the telly. He was a good person but he had low habits, was divorced, and didn't see his kids as often as he should. He slept late and ran about the flat trying frantically to get ready for work. He understood life wasn't always perfect, _people_ weren't perfect and that there was no reason trying to _be_ perfect. He knew the hard way of life. He understood it from _experience_, not _deductions_ like Mycroft, and could relate to Sherlock on that level. He could say, that's tough kid, now listen to this one- and Sherlock would listen and understand and not feel so alone anymore.

He liked Greg Lestrade. He trusted him. He didn't want to disappoint him.

"Stay away from me." Sherlock finally said, and watched as Mycroft pinched his lips together.

"You know I am worried about you-"

"That's…that's such shit!" Sherlock said, feeling a prickle of pride at learning and correctly using one of Greg's favorite phrases. "You're not worried about _me_. Don't _ever_ say that to me again. I never want to see your face."

Mycroft looked down at his feet and shuffled uncomfortably. It wasn't pleasant seeing his brother in such a way, obviously pained. He had tried to help a year ago by forcing Sherlock into rehab in order to get clean. That hadn't gone well and had been the final act that had seemed to sever their tenuous friendship. Sherlock had refused to speak to him once he was out of rehab and had fallen back on his drugs, almost as if he were doing it specifically to provoke Mycroft and rub his face in the fact that he hadn't been able to help him.

Then he had disappeared.

Now, though, there seemed to be some promise. Mycroft looked back at Sherlock, then his eyes flicked to the Detective Inspector. It seemed he had been wrong about the man's intentions towards Sherlock. It was obvious they hadn't had sexual relations, and that Lestrade was actually trying to _help_ his brother. Eight days…that was really nothing in the life of a junkie but…it was a start.

If Greg Lestrade succeeded in cleaning up his brother, Mycroft would forever be grateful.

"It seems apologies are in order, Detective Inspector." Mycroft inclined his head and Greg looked from one brother to the other.

"Uh…yeah, sure." He mumbled, confused, and heard Sherlock snort beside him, shaking his head incredulously, obviously not accepting his brother's apology.

"Until next time, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock." Mycroft smiled thinly and walked away, further into the dark of the building, tapping the sharp point of his umbrella with each step.

Sherlock's eyes followed his brother's retreat before he sighed then turned abruptly around and began walking quickly from the room. Greg hurried to catch up with him, afraid he was losing him, afraid Sherlock was about to use again after the heated and emotional confrontation with his brother.

He wasn't really sure why he was drawn to Sherlock, but he felt protective of the young man, as if he were his own son and he was damned if he would let him start using again. Not now.

"Sherlock-"

"We need to get back to the flat." Sherlock's tones were clipped and vibrating with tension. "Immediately. I was _this_ close to solving the Barrington- Grimke murder."


	2. Did You Take It?

"There's someone here to see you."

"Who?" Greg asked, distracted, sorting through the files on his desk, trying to find the one with the- _ah_! There it was! The case with the woman who had the missing nose. Ok, Sherlock's notes were in here somewhere-

"I dunno. Says he's the Freak's brother."

Greg froze and looked up at Donovan in surprise. "His _brother_?"

"I didn't know he had one either but so he claims." She shook her head. "It's scary thinking there's two of them out there. One's bad enough." She rolled her eyes. "You want me to bring him in?"

"Yeah…yeah bring him in." Greg waited until Donovan had closed his office door before launching himself at his desk and frantically trying to tidy it up, stacking folders and papers together so it wouldn't look as if a filing cabinet had exploded only moments before- which was rather an apt description of what his morning had been like. He cursed as his over-stacked inbox upended and papers fluttered to the floor. He scrapped them together and, in a fit of desperation, shoved them under his desk and out of view.

While he didn't necessarily _like_ Mycroft Holmes, Greg did _not_ want to look like a fuck-up in front of the man- especially after everything Sherlock had told him about his brother.

In the month since Greg's impromptu meeting with Mycroft, Sherlock had revealed little snippets and bare facts about Mycroft.

He worked for the government- correction, according to Sherlock, his brother _was_ the British Government, and the CIA…and the FBI….and controlled various countries around the world…and he instigated wars during breakfast. Greg had asked if that was like having a penchant for marmalade versus jam and received such a withering look from Sherlock that he had stopped laughing.

Mycroft, according to Sherlock, was _not_ a laughing matter. He was dangerous, cold, calculating, and brilliant. Sherlock also warned Greg that Mycroft controlled the various CCTV cameras in the city, as well as any other camera he wished to hack, and therefore the entire city was under his all-seeing eye and control.

Mycroft sounded as if he were on a serious power trip to Greg and enormously full of himself. Sherlock had smiled when Greg said as much and Greg felt as if he'd won some sort of approval from the young man.

Sherlock had warned Greg that Mycroft was the most dangerous man he would ever meet and Greg was starting to entirely trust whatever Sherlock said. Many would think that was stupid and naive considering the man had once been a junkie but, there it was. Greg could see the good in Sherlock, even if the genius didn't see it in himself.

Greg heard Donovan's voice as she and Mycroft came closer, and Mycroft's cold murmur as he answered, and was suddenly all too aware the last time he'd seen Mycroft he'd told him to fuck off and threatened him. Greg had just started to feel nervous when he remembered Mycroft had said some bad things too and threatened him right back. So…fuck Mycroft Holmes.

Clenching his fists, Greg remembered other details of their meeting he'd forgotten and wished he hadn't made the effort to straighten his desk.

A brief knock, the door swung open, and Donovan motioned Mycroft inside the office.

Mycroft Holmes, striking in his suit and holding his ever present umbrella, smiled coldly and looked around, his eyes taking in every detail (a look and move Greg had seen Sherlock do a few times so he knew everything about his office _and_ himself was being deduced), before finally moving toward Greg, extending his hand.

"Good afternoon, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Greg eyed the outstretched hand only briefly before shaking it, exerting the right amount of pressure and meeting Mycroft's cold eyes. _The most dangerous man you'll ever meet, _Sherlock's voice whispered in his head. He didn't look it, Greg thought, but then…looks could be deceiving.

"Mr. Holmes. Good to see you when you're not abducting me and pulling James Bond shit." Greg said drily, sitting back in his chair and gesturing for Mycroft to sit opposite.

Mycroft's eyes glittered and he smirked at Greg before seating himself, crossing his legs and regarding the DI.

"I would remind you I apologized for that. Let us consider it water under the bridge."

Greg knew a command when he heard it and he pulled a face and leaned back in his chair, if only to piss Mycroft off who was sitting all upright and posh. "You could've just rung me. After everything Sherlock's told me I'm pretty sure you could've found my mobile number easy enough."

"You should remember the information my brother gives you is _highly_ inclined to prejudice and embellishment. Sherlock does love to be dramatic."

Greg snorted in laughter, then regretted it because it might make Mycroft think this gave them camaraderie against his brother.

Sherlock _was_ overly dramatic at times, though.

"My brother is still living with you, as I understand." Mycroft said suddenly, and Greg sat forward in his chair. Down to business then.

"In a strictly _platonic_ way-"He began, remembering the blatant accusations from the month previous.

"Of course. We have already covered that subject the last time we met." Greg marveled that Mycroft managed to make it sound as if they had met for drinks or lunch instead of an abandoned building _after_ he had been abducted. "It doesn't change the fact that my brother is currently living with you and this has placed you in an excellent position to perform a small task for me."

Greg frowned, not trusting where the conversation was going. "And what's that?"

"I only ask that you give me weekly reports on Sherlock's progress, his well-being, his whereabouts and activities, cases he is working on, friends he _may_ make. In return-"

"You're…Hold on. You're asking me to _spy_ on Sherlock?" Greg interrupted, frowning as the full implications of what Mycroft was saying sunk in.

"_Spy_ is such a…common word." Mycroft grimaced. "I want to know about his life, Detective Inspector. These reports are necessary because he refuses to allow me close enough to judge for myself. I am concerned for him. He is my younger brother, after all."

Greg frowned and leaned back in his chair. Sherlock had never elaborated on his relationship with Mycroft beyond telling Greg that Mycroft had forced him into rehab against his will. The anger as he had recounted that story had struck Greg and explained _some_ of the hatred the young man felt…but not all of it.

Mycroft had been trying to _help_ him, after all, and that would show the elder Holmes had _some_ love and caring for his brother. It was obvious Sherlock didn't agree, and Greg remembered the accusations he had leveled at Mycroft: _It's not for me. It's never been for me. It's always about you. You're afraid I'll do something reckless and endanger your precious career._

It was obvious there was a history between them that Greg knew nothing about but...that didn't mean he would _spy_ on Sherlock for Mycroft- even if he _did_ feel a little bad for the man sitting across from him.

"Why not use your cameras? Sherlock said you have access to those all over the city."

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Sherlock is clever and knows how to avoid the cameras. I was…unable to find him for almost five months when he became homeless. You've met him. Do you really think, if he did not want to be found, you could find him?"

Greg grunted. "No. That doesn't mean I'm going to spy on him for you."

"Come now, Detective, you're not exactly wealthy and I know the alimony and child support payments are a drain on your income. I would be more than willing-"

"I'm not spying on Sherlock." Greg said firmly. He couldn't believe he was sitting in his office in the middle of a hectic workday, cases needing to be solved yesterday and the phones ringing off the hook, with Mycroft Bloody The-British-Government Holmes asking him to spy on his little brother in exchange for money.

It bordered on the ridiculous and it was pissing Greg the fuck off.

"The guy's been through enough without me taking money from his own brother to spy on him. If you want to see him so badly just come by the damn flat and visit him like a normal person. Ring first." Greg began shuffling through the papers he had crammed together- bloody wasted effort that- and trying to find Sherlock's notes about the missing nosed female, hoping Mycroft would take the hint and _leave_ when Mycroft spoke again.

"He trusts you."

Greg looked up at Mycroft and wished he could do that deducing thing Sherlock was able to do- one glance and he knew everything about Greg and what had happened that day. He generally made petty, rude statements but sometimes he would know Greg had had a particularly bad day, he was bogged down in the crap that came with his job, worried about a case- and would take himself into the kitchen and make a half-arsed attempt at tea. Greg knew better than to drink any tea Sherlock made but he always thanked him. It was a nice gesture from the young man.

If he were able to deduce like Sherlock, he would be able to know what Mycroft was thinking as he stared blankly at him. No emotions leaked through, his eyes were unreachable and cold, and something made Greg feel as if he had done wrong by gaining Sherlock's trust. That by doing so he had made Mycroft angry and resentful. He wondered if Mycroft were jealous his relationship with Sherlock.

"I don't know." Greg murmured and he didn't because he'd never really stopped to think about it before. Sherlock seemed so unreachable most of the time with his cutting remarks, barely able to tolerate anyone for long and usually Greg was easily able to rub him the wrong way and be treated to Sherlock pouting on his sofa. Greg didn't think Sherlock really liked or trusted _anyone_. Probably not even him. Apparently Mycroft thought differently.

Mycroft sniffed, a decidedly indignant and yet posh sound and Greg felt as if he had been found lacking and subsequently dismissed.

"Was there another reason you stopped by?" He asked, _really_ ready for Mycroft to be out of his office so he could finish working.

The cool mask slipped and Mycroft suddenly looked discomfited. He broke eye contact for the first time and stared down at his umbrella. "I also want to thank you, Greg, for taking care of my brother."

Greg looked at him in silence, wondering where he was going with this. Mycroft avoided his eyes.

"Sherlock and I…our relationship…I have not always been there for him when he needed me. It created a rift between us and it was- _is_- my fault. I am relieved you were there for him, Gregory Lestrade."

It was the first time Mycroft had called him by name and hadn't made it sound like he was mocking him. Greg gaped at what he had said. Mycroft was…_thanking_ him for taking care of Sherlock? Greg cleared his throat before answering.

"It's…Sherlock's…a remarkable young man. I was happy to do it."

"Yes, he is." Mycroft said, smiling, and this time the smile seemed to touch his eyes, warming them briefly before he stood suddenly and strode to the door, bowing briefly.

"Good afternoon, Detective. Until next time."

Greg was starting to feel sure that there _would_ be a next time.

Bloody Holmes brothers.

* * *

"Your brother came by the Yard today." Greg said, plopping down on his sofa, which was only recently minus a Sherlock who had now claimed the armchair as his, and took a swig of his beer.

Sherlock's spine stiffened and his head whipped around to pin Greg with his best glare. "Did you take it?"

"Take what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated. "_The money_. Did you take it?"

"Your brother make it a habit to offer money to everyone you ever talk to?"

"Greg. Did. You. Take. It?

Greg looked over at the young man with the too-long hair sitting bolt-upright in his armchair, his hands gripping the arms of the chair until the knuckles turned white. Sherlock looked so much better. He was still too skinny but was gaining weight and, though he moaned about it every time, Greg was forcing him to eat semi-regular meals. The withdrawals had gone and, while Sherlock still wanted his drugs and had trouble sleeping, he was no longer manic in his need.

Greg smiled at him, liking what he saw: a healthy, keen-eyed Sherlock Holmes, no longer a junkie.

"No, Sherlock. I didn't."

Sherlock's posture relaxed and he exhaled as quietly as possible. He would not let Greg know how much it meant to him that he had refused Mycroft's money. Sweet, unadulterated relief coursed through him. In the past, every person Mycroft had offered money to accepted…and then tried to be Sherlock's best friend and annoyingly shadowed him about trying to get information the required information.

Tedious.

With Greg though...

"I reckon I should have though." Greg mused, grinning over at Sherlock. "We could have split the fee."

Sherlock snorted and turned back to the drivel that was on Greg's telly, a smiling tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Think it through next time."


	3. Moving Day

"What happened this time?"

The young man didn't answer, superficially absorbed in packing a cardboard box with several books but Greg _knew_ Sherlock could hear him. He was being ignored and no one ignored so well as Sherlock Holmes.

Greg sighed and looked around the drab little room.

"Not like it's a big loss, really. Pretty dumpy place, honestly."

"_You_ helped me find it."

"Eh, yeah." Greg shrugged, because in fact he _had_ done but at the time he'd thought things would've worked out better. "Maybe next place-"

"It will always be the same. I cannot tolerate idiots for long."

Greg rolled his eyes and tossed a few books into the cardboard box, earning himself a glare from Sherlock who fussily straightened them, lips thinned into irritated lines.

By this point in their relationship, Greg was able to read between the lines and know what Sherlock was _really_ saying: People cannot tolerate me for long. This will always happen. People will always think I'm a freak. I don't belong anywhere.

"This flatmate was a git, though. You deduced it first day- what was it you said?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched and something in Greg's heart loosened at seeing Sherlock regaining his humor. "I said he fellated his fingers in his sleep and frequented BDSM clubs where he paid homosexual men to whip his genitals."

"Yeah, uh…right. Knew it was something like that. Bloody great way with words you have." Greg cleared his throat. "Like I said, no real loss. Now, come on, let's get this shit packed 'cause I've got work in three hours."

"You don't have to help. I didn't ask you to." Sherlock snapped peevishly as he flung clothes haphazardly out of his closet, his black mood returning.

Greg rolled his eyes and started taking the clothes off the hangers, declining to comment. Sherlock was just in a bad mood and anything Greg said was going to make it worse. He knew better than to even try.

They worked in silence for another hour, packing Sherlock's bedroom into the neat cardboard boxes Greg had brought over.

"I won't start using again."

Greg looked up from carefully wrapping empty petri dishes (he'd argue with Sherlock later about where he'd stolen them from) and stared at the young man who'd paused in the process of delicately packing his plastic bags of dog hair into their own special box.

"Why'd you think-"

"_Please_. A part of you is relieved that I'm moving back to your flat because now you'll be able to keep an eye out and make sure I'm not using again. It's something you worry about because every time we meet you look for traces of drug use for the first five minutes. The reason-the _real reason_- you wanted to help today was because you thought, after being evicted from the fourth flat in as many months- I would be sunk so low as to reach for drugs again on the way to your flat."

Greg watched as Sherlock rattled off his deductions, his blue eyes focused out the window, unwilling to look at Greg as he spoke of his past drug use. It was something Greg was starting to understand Sherlock, the further he got from it, was rather ashamed of and didn't like talking about. It was something Greg wouldn't press him to discuss. The past was the past, as far as he was concerned, and Sherlock had moved beyond his drug use. Greg didn't need to bring it up and rehash it with him all the time, even if yeah, sometimes he did worry. Well, more than _sometimes_ but not as often as Sherlock thought. At least not that much every day.

Besides, Sherlock was only partly right in his otherwise brilliant deduction.

No, he didn't want Sherlock to be alone but not because of the drugs. He didn't want Sherlock to be alone…because _no one_ deserved to be so lonely. He knew the young man had no friends, deliberately alienated everyone he met, and _claimed_ to be a sociopath when anyone who spent more than a day in his company could tell that wasn't true. Sherlock felt things just like everyone else. He just didn't always show it.

"Ever stop to think maybe I just like your company?" Greg asked drily, raising his eyebrows and giving Sherlock his best "Cut the shit" look.

Sherlock turned to him, brows drawn low over his eyes, his own expression responding: "Highly unlikely."

Greg shook his head. He'd never had full conversations using expressions before he met Sherlock. The whole thing was bizarre and…routine.

"And I _don't _look forward to you staying at my flat again." Greg teased, grinning good-naturedly. "You better remember the flat-rules."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slammed shut the lid on the last box. "Those are so _juvenile_."

"Well, I'm dealing with a child." Greg groused, knocking his shoulder into Sherlock's and grinning when Sherlock huffed (a sure sign he was trying not to laugh) and pretended to be offended by the contact.

* * *

Greg wasn't really surprised when, as he lugged a particularly heavy box of books down the narrow stair and out into the watery winter sunshine, he saw Mycroft Holmes standing beside his usual black car.

Mycroft had a way of just showing up when the mood struck him and Greg was starting to get used to that.

The sunshine reflected off Mycroft's wavy auburn hair and pale skin as he leaned on his umbrella, legs crossed at the ankle with a supercilious smirk on his face. Greg grinned over at him and Mycroft inclined his head, his smirk morphing into something much more friendly and warm. It'd been a month since Greg had last seen Mycroft- not since the last time Sherlock had been forced to move- and Greg was sort of…_glad_ to see the elder Holmes.

Something tugged in the pit of Greg's stomach as he glanced over at the man and he suppressed an unwelcome and surprising emotion as he lugged Sherlock's box to his car.

"Lestrade." Mycroft called a greeting, and Greg smiled over at him, quickly tossing the box into the boot.

"_Careful with those_!" Sherlock yelled indignantly from the door, clutching a white microscope in his hands with a very prominent "Property of St. Bartholomew's" sticker emblazoned across the base.

"Sherlock, you can't bring that to my flat." Greg said resignedly, checking his watch to make sure he wouldn't be late for work before he started what was sure to be a lengthy argument.

"Why not?"

"It's _stolen_!"

Sherlock snorted. "It's not stolen. I've simply borrowed it to run some important experiments-"

"And exactly _who_ did you tell you were borrowing it?" Greg tried not to think of what _experiments_ Sherlock would be running in his flat. Unbidden, the image of the sinkful of blood and _parts_ drifted through his mind and Greg fought down a retch.

"The new girl they have working the morgue." Sherlock replied promptly and Greg stared at him, trying to decide if he were lying or not. Mycroft watched the exchange with growing amusement and finally Sherlock sighed and briefly closed his eyes, as if asking for help from Above when dealing with idiots.

"Her name is Molly Hooper. You can call her if-"

"Nah, I believe you." Greg said, deciding that Sherlock would _probably_ not lie to him- at least not over this. "Just remember 'no stolen goods' is number 2 on the flat rules."

The look Sherlock gave him was unquestionably murderous as he carefully placed his microscope in the front seat of Greg's car before turning to go back into the flat for more boxes.

Mycroft didn't offer to help, merely leaned on his umbrella and watched as Sherlock did as little work as possible while Greg sweated and stumbled up and down the stiars under the weight of the library Sherlock insisted accompany him to each flat.

After the fifth trip, his muscles screaming and sweat dripping down his back despite the coldness of the day, Greg thanked god Sherlock didn't have furniture. After helping the young man move and then leave _four_ flats, Greg was ready to "accidentally" burn every single book Sherlock owned but he knew he'd never get away with anything "accidental" with Sherlock.

Sherlock finally gave up on any pretense of helping with the move and stood beside Greg's car, as far away from his brother as possible, rapidly texting on his mobile and ignoring the hateful looks Greg sent his way each trip.

"That's it." Greg gasped, tossing the last box (this one containing a complete set of insects found in and around London) into the boot and slamming it shut before slumping against it in relief and exhaustion.

"Excellent." Sherlock snapped his mobile shut and moved to get in the car. This was, apparently, Mycroft's signal to come to the point of why he was there and he straightened from his relaxed pose, stepping forward with a serious expression.

"You could always come and live with me, Sherlock. The house is big enough for the two of us and I have-"

"I'd rather live on the street. Oh, wait, I've already done that and it was indeed _decidedly_ nicer than living with you."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock's jaw clenched at the sound of Greg's tired but stern and disappointed voice. He'd tried to drill into Sherlock's head the maxim that, "If you can't say something nice to your brother, shut the fucking hell up, Sherlock." It was a stupid, childish lesson and Sherlock wanted to do nothing but spew venom at Mycroft every time he saw him. And Mycroft made it so _easy_.

Such as now.

There he stood, having gained fifteen pounds more since the last time Sherlock had seen him- it would be rude _not_ to comment on it, in his opinion. Greg was standing there, though, looking expectant, and lurking behind that was resignation that Sherlock would go against what he'd said…and Sherlock felt his insides twist at letting Greg down.

He had nothing nice to say to his brother, though. He glared at him, deducing the recent weight gain, the promotion, the increase in salary, the sleepless nights, the recent affair he'd enjoyed with his male secretary, the pastry he'd eaten that morning for breakfast, and the new razor he'd used to shave.

Sherlock wracked his brains to think of _something_ acceptable to say to Mycroft.

"You need a female secretary." He said stiffly. "The male ones are entirely too tempting, convenient, and easy for you to seduce." Sherlock pivoted away from his brother and stalked to Greg's car, carefully picking up his pilfered microscope before throwing himself into the passenger seat and slamming the door.

Greg sighed and ran a hand across his forehead. For Sherlock that had been…almost polite. Mycroft, for his part, didn't look surprised but there was a tinge on his high cheekbones that could've been either anger or embarrassment.

Greg decided that he really didn't want to know which.

"It was…pleasant seeing you again, Lestrade." Mycroft was always good at bouncing back from situations that would make lesser men bumbling, embarrassed morons.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, you too." Greg stammered, and really, it kind of had been. Usually, when he met Mycroft the visits were filled with shouted insults from Sherlock and pained expressions from Mycroft. The visit always ended in Sherlock pouting furiously and Mycroft leaving, his face either completely pale or blood-red, depending on what exactly Sherlock had said.

Compared to those times, this visit had been positively chipper.

"Until next time." Mycroft extended his hand and Greg took it without thinking, shaking firmly and maintaining eye contact as he'd always been taught. This time, though, an unexpected feeling jerked in the pit of his stomach as he stared into those now smiling blue eyes. He could feel Mycroft's soft palm against his own calloused and rough one and he cleared his throat as he felt his pulse increase at the prolonged contact.

_Bugger_.

"I thought you said you were going to be late for work."

Greg jumped as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't and looked over at Sherlock who had stuck his head out the window of the car, glaring.

"Right. Ah, yeah, yeah, right. See you around, Mycroft."

"And the same to you, Detective. Perhaps next time we meet it won't be due to my brother's…misdeeds." Mycroft replied smoothly, flicking an amused glance at his brother who jerked his head back into the vehicle.

* * *

Sherlock seethed in the passenger seat all the way to Greg's flat and rebuffed every attempt at conversation. Greg, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, thought Sherlock looked much younger than 26 years old when he stuck his chin out like that and slouched in the seat, still cradling his precious microscope. Disapproval radiated in waves from his side of the car and Greg pretended, unsuccessfully, not to notice.

"Dating again, I see." Sherlock snarked as he sailed through Greg's flat and down the hallway to his old bedroom.

Greg shook his head, beyond being curious as to how Sherlock would know that and collapsed into his armchair, trying to set a precedent for Sherlock to follow- sofa _yours_, armchair _mine_.

Not that it would do any good.

He could hear Sherlock settling things in his room and slowly brought his wrist up to eyelevel to check the time and make sure he wouldn't be late. His day off was tomorrow- he could unpack the car then. Or Sherlock could do it after Greg got back.

"Greg."

Greg raised his head from the back of the armchair and looked at Sherlock who had paused halfway across the sitting room, his precious skull clutched in his hands. Greg tired not to make a face but it was just too macabre to keep a skull on the coffee table. Any and all arguments against Sherlock keeping the skull in such a prominent place had ended with Greg throwing up his hands and Sherlock, smirking victoriously, gently placing his "friend" wherever the hell he wanted.

Sherlock seemed to be having a brief, silent struggle with himself, shifting from foot to foot and looking about the flat, caressing his skull in long, nervous fingers.

"Yeah?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and finally met Greg's eyes.

"My brother. Mycroft is…he's…you'll just get hurt if you get involved with him."

"I'm not involved with your brother." Greg protested but Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"Not _yet_. I don't…I don't want you to get hurt." Sherlock bit his lip and frowned down at his skull, his eyes skittering away from Greg's and Greg suddenly realized, in a blinding flash, that Sherlock was _concerned_ for him.

The knowledge made him feel…well, Christ, the knowledge gave him the warm fuzzies but he was _damned_ if he would let Sherlock know that.

"Hey, look, it's fine. I'm a grown man. I think I can handle your brother."

Sherlock gave Greg a Look. "Doubtful."


	4. Two Men in an AE

Greg paced the waiting room, running his hands through his hair, feeling as if his heart were about to break out of his chest. He couldn't sit still, was fidgety, his skin hot and clammy and he felt as if he was going to be sick. He kept his shaking hand over his mouth, refusing to succumb in front of at least twelve other people in various states of injury and illness in the A&E waiting room.

He was a hardened police officer, Greg lectured himself sternly as another wave of nausea swept over him threateningly. He'd seen all sorts of horrible crimes, blood, gore, and had never been effected like this- so he just needed to stop it and calm the fuck down. One of the nurses on-call gave Greg a suspicious, searching look, no doubt wondering what drugs he was crashing from but he turned his back and ignored her.

This was his fault. He _knew_ this whole thing was his fault.

He should've known better. Sherlock was just a _kid_, an impulsive, irrational _child_ with no sense of self-preservation and Greg should've kept a better eye on him. He shouldn't have let him go off on his own, against his own better judgment, but Sherlock had said he could handle it and Greg had believed him.

Why the fuck had he done that? _Why_?

Greg choked. If he hadn't done that…Sherlock wouldn't be… wouldn't be…Christ.

Greg slumped against the wall and looked down at himself. His previously pristine white sleeves were now stiff with streaks of blood that were turning brown the drier they got. Blood was caked around his fingernails, even after he had scrubbed them in the loo once the doctors had taken Sherlock into surgery, telling him it would be hours. The knees of his trousers were still damp with blood, sticking to his skin, and even his shoes…there was so much blood.

Too much blood.

Greg looked as if he'd murdered someone- and he probably had. He shouldn't have-

"Greg."

Greg jumped and turned to see Mycroft hurrying towards him. He couldn't remember ever seeing Mycroft Holmes, usually so cool and composed, look so upset.

His suit was rumpled and the buttons of his shirt were done up the wrong way, as if he'd rushed himself and hadn't yet had time to sort himself out. He was pale, sweat beading along his upper lip and forehead, and was gripping his umbrella so tightly his knuckles were white. His keen eyes took in Greg's stiff sleeves, the white almost completely obscured by browning blood, and he paled even more.

"How is he?"

"Still in surgery. They won't tell me anything-"

Mycroft pivoted stiffly and quickly strode to the nurse's station. Greg couldn't tell what he said but the nurse he spoke to paled and nodded her head quickly, murmuring apologies and scurried away. Mycroft waited, tapping his umbrella against the tile floor, his posture so rigid Greg thought he looked as if he would shatter with one touch, until the nurse reappeared.

Her face was white and she began whispering to Mycroft, her eyes down, hands shaking as she gestured, obviously intimidated. Greg watched the exchange and, when Mycroft nodded to the nurse and began walking back, pushed himself away from the wall, his gut clenching in dread at whatever news Mycroft was about to tell him.

Please God…

"Well?"

Mycroft sighed. "He's still in surgery but the surgeon said he will require at least twenty-six stitches."

Mycroft looked as pale as a ghost and visibly swayed as he once again stared at the blood on Greg's clothing. Greg glanced around for the nearest chair and didn't even try to look nonchalant about ushering Mycroft into it. He sank down without his usual elegance and poise and clutched his umbrella as if it holding it so tightly would save his brother's life.

"Everything of any importance was missed." He choked out and Greg felt as if his strings had been cut as his knees gave out from beneath him. He plopped into a chair beside Mycroft and let out a breath of relief.

He hadn't been told a damn thing since Sherlock had been rushed to the hospital, even when he'd flashed his badge and _demanded_ to know. It seemed that "only family" excluded Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and he'd never felt so impotent with anger and sadness as he had when the nurse had walked away, her nose in the air, seemingly (to Greg's overwrought mind) smug at denying him information.

"It was my fault." He gritted out, guilt clawing at his insides. "I shouldn'tve let him-"

"Nonsense. My brother has a penchant for getting himself into the worst situations imaginable and carelessly placing his life in danger. You have nothing to blame yourself for, Gregory." There was a pause then, "I saw the video footage of his attack."

Greg shuddered at the tone of Mycroft's voice. He thought he'd heard it chilly, remote, and distant before when he'd been speaking with Sherlock, the first time Mycroft had abducted him- but nothing prepared Greg for the way Mycroft sounded now. There was no emotion, nothing there, a completely blank slate.

The Ice Man.

Greg was suddenly fervently thankful Mycroft didn't think he was the reason Sherlock had been attacked. He would no doubt be dead by now…or more likely praying for death.

"Should I…even keep looking for him? The attacker?"

"I would not waste the time and effort of your people in looking for him, were I you."

Greg nodded, having expected that answer and the two lapsed into an uneasy silence. Greg sat on the edge of the waiting room chair, folding and re-folding his hands, bouncing his feet. He was so anxious. His stomach was churning, even though the surgeon had said Sherlock would be ok.

What if he wasn't? What if something went wrong? Twenty-six stitches…Jesus.

"They wouldn't tell me anything." He shook his head, unable to keep silent even though he knew Mycroft would probably prefer not having to make conversation. "I've never seen him so pale before I-"

"They refused to give you any information?"

"Uh, yeah. Said I wasn't family-"

Mycroft stood suddenly and strode back to the nurses' station. He spoke sharply to the woman on duty and, though he still couldn't hear what was being said, Greg saw the woman glance in his direction and nod dutifully. When Mycroft strode away, her chin buckled and she slumped into her chair before furiously typing away on her computer, giving Greg another glance. He supposed he had been given permission to have access to Sherlock and the constriction in his chest eased slightly when he knew Mycroft had stood up for him. Officially welcomed him into the fold.

"Hey, thanks-"

"There is another waiting room down the hall for those with family in surgery. Would you care to accompany me, Gregory?"

* * *

The telly played quietly in the background, some round-the-clock news station with attractive talking heads and two different crawls down at the bottom. Greg stared at the screen without really seeing anything, playing back the scene from earlier that day.

Running down the street, knowing something had gone wrong but not knowing what- seeing Sherlock collapsed on the ground, blood pooling rapidly beneath him. Greg's body had exploded in panic while years of training kicked in and he'd calmly radioed for help before falling to his knees and trying to staunch the flow of blood.

Sherlock had already passed out and had therefore heard nothing Greg said as he tried to tell him paramedics were on the way, just a little bit longer, hold on just a little bit longer, Sherlock. Sherlock? Come on, you entitled idiot! Just a little bit longer! Fuck you if you die on me right now. I'll fucking burn your skull if you do- Sherlock? Sherlock, come on, please-

Greg fiercely rubbed his eyes and stood up, beginning his pacing again. How much longer would Sherlock be in in surgery? Had something gone wrong? Was that why this was taking so damn long?

Time slipped away.

Greg made a couple of phone calls, called off the search for the attacker, referred his people to higher-up offices and dropped names as Mycroft instructed him.

Mycroft made a few terse, secretive calls which Greg took to mean the attacker was in custody, was being tortured, and was dying a slow, agonizing death. Or, at least, that's what he _hoped_ the phone calls were about.

Finally, after what seemed like interminable hours of waiting, the doctor came in. He smiled and shook hands with Mycroft.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes is going to be fine. He was cut up very badly but we've stitched him up, given him a blood transfusion, and he'll need to be kept here for at least a week for observation. When he's released we recommend bed rest for another week, possibly more if he will acquiesce but nothing too strenuous. No movement that could rip his stitches."

If Greg hadn't been so chuffed to know Sherlock was going to be ok he would've almost dreaded keeping the insane man on bed rest in his flat for the next while. As if was, he was so shaky in relief he welcome the idea of shouting at Sherlock while he recovered.

"We can see him." Mycroft said, obviously having regained his former icy demeanor now that he knew his brother would be fine.

"Not yet, I'm afraid. He's being moved to a private room, per your request, but he won't be there for at least another half hour. I would suggest you two gentlemen relax and I'll send a nurse to come fetch you when he's settled."

Mycroft looked as if the last thing he would be doing was "relaxing" but Greg felt dead on his feet from relief and stress. He was sure Mycroft felt worse and if they would be going to see Sherlock, woozy and irritable after a stabbing and stitches, they would both need their wits about them.

He reached over and grasped Mycroft's arm. "Come on. I'll buy you a coffee."

* * *

Mycroft fiddled with the lid of his coffee but didn't drink it, his thoughts obviously elsewhere: two floors above them where Sherlock was still out of it.

Greg sipped his own coffee and glanced around the almost empty, semi-dark little café the hospital boasted in its lobby. It wasn't bad, rather a luxury to get good coffee while waiting for news of loved ones and the like. It was probably the nicest hospital Greg had been in and he allowed himself to relax as the sweet relief of Sherlock being ok settled through his veins.

He glanced back at Mycroft and winced. He looked so dejected and lost. Greg was fully aware he didn't know _half_ of what there was to know about Mycroft- hell, he probably didn't even know 1/16th- but he could tell Mycroft was hurting. It was written in his body language, the way his shoulders rounded just slightly and the way his lips thinned, pressing together and going just the slightest bit down. He was also fiddling and Greg knew Mycroft never felt the need to do such things. He was upset.

Greg didn't know what to say except the obvious and he knew, from extensive and painful experience with Sherlock, that Holmes men didn't like being told the _obvious_.

Mycroft's lips thinned some more, though, drooping at the corners and Greg thought to hell with it.

He slid his hand across the table and grasped Mycroft's. Mycroft blinked and stared at the contact with his brow slightly furrowed as if he were unsure what to make of it, then his eyes raised to meet Greg's. Greg threaded their fingers together and gave Mycroft's hand a squeeze.

"He's ok."

Mycroft's lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "Yes, it would take more than an insane, adulterous spouse accused of murder to kill Sherlock." He cleared his throat and looked down, his blue eyes suddenly swimming in tears. "All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage." Mycroft snorted and met Greg's shocked eyes. "That is what I have told myself ever since I was a child and it is how I have lived my life. I take care of my family, my mother, my brother, those who work for me. I feel responsibility toward them but sentiment? Love? I do not allow myself to care…or so I told myself. Until today. I never knew I was such a liar to my own self."

"Mycroft-"

"I keep thinking…what if he died? What if he died hating me?" he whispered, voice guilty, as if he were confessing a disgusting weakness. "It's ridiculous."

"He doesn't hate you."

Mycroft gave Greg a doubtful look. "Come now, Gregory. We both know of my brother's feelings toward me. He is not exactly reticent in telling me."

"He doesn't." Greg insisted. "I mean, he resents the hell out of you, and there's some bitterness there- a _lot_ there- and some sort of deep-seated need to make you feel guilty about, well, everything but…he doesn't _hate_ you."

Mycroft smiled, his eyes still glassy with unshed tears and Greg wondered how much longer he could keep fighting the tide. Probably forever, knowing Mycroft.

"That is a nice thought to have, but I believe there is too much shared history between Sherlock and myself to allow me to believe anything other than that he _does_ hate me. I made…many mistakes with him, irreparable ones."

Greg thought making mistakes was probably something Mycroft didn't admit to readily, if ever, and he didn't comment on it or draw more attention to the admission.

"I was not there for him when he needed me most. I am not arrogant enough to claim it was all _my_ fault, but I do have a share of the blame in Sherlock's rough adolescence and early adulthood."

Greg was quite as he watched Mycroft continue to fiddle with his coffee cup with the hand Greg wasn't holding. To that hand, Mycroft clung to almost painfully.

"I don't know how to make it up to him now."

Mycroft wasn't so different from Sherlock, Greg thought, able to understand just what the younger man was _really_ saying: I don't know how to stop him hating me.

Greg shrugged and tugged Mycroft's hand to make him look at him. "I don't know either. Sherlock's…Sherlock's an emotionally fucked up guy and he makes a _career_ out of holding grudges. Just…be there for him, I guess. It's…good you've started coming round to visit him and all. It lets him know you're there for him. Even if he doesn't want it."

"He detests seeing me."

"Yeah, maybe." Greg nodded, refusing to bullshit Mycroft. "But you're still showing up, right? Letting him know you're there for him, letting him know you're trying. You _are_ trying. He knows that. Maybe it's too late to fix things like you want them, but you can still fix them a little. Enough so that you can have a good relationship with your brother. You just can't quit trying when Sherlock turns into a brat."

There was silence as the two of them gazed at each other across the table.

"I'm glad my brother has you." _I'm glad you're here with me, right now._

Greg nodded and smiled. "Yeah, me too."

* * *

"Gregory."

Greg's heart did a little flip as he heard that posh voice calling his name. He was already smiling as he turned to find Mycroft walking toward him.

The hospital hallway was busy with nurses going in and out of rooms, tending to their patients, visitors arriving and departing, and the breakfast trays rattled past as Greg waited for Mycroft to reach him.

"Are you here to see Sherlock?"

"Yes, he is the only person I know in the hospital today." Mycroft smiled and Greg felt like an idiot for asking such an obvious question. "I have heard from my sources that he is much better so you can rest assured about that."

"Great. I haven't heard anything since last night except that he should be awake by now." Greg was actually sort of dreading visiting Sherlock when the young man found out he was confined to the hospital for the next week.

"I must confess, Gregory, I timed my arrival today to coincide with yours."

"Yeah?" Bit stalker-ish but not surprising coming from Mycroft.

"Yes. Would you accompany me to the theater on Friday?"

"The theater?" Greg parroted, caught off-guard, wondering where the hell that came from.

"Yes."

"What, like a…like a _date_?"

"Yes, of course."

Oh, _of course_ the British Government is asking you on a date, Gregory, Greg allowed his inner voice to snark. _Of course_, nothing odd or surprising about that.

"Um…uh, yeah. Yeah, sure, why not? Sounds like fun." Stop talking, Greg, stop. Fucking. Talking.

Mycroft's eyes lit up and he grinned. "Excellent. I will text you-"

"_What do you mean I can't leave for a week?"_ Sherlock's indignant voice rang out down the hall and Mycroft winced in sympathy for whichever nurse had just been shouted at.

Greg's lips twisted in a smile. "I'll let you explain that to him, yeah?"


	5. Chapter 5

_I wouldn't be surprised if you hired that man to stab me so you could ask Greg on a date. SH._

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the indignant message from his brother before thumbing a response.

_I assure you that is not the case. Your stabbing, while regrettable, was happenstance, not planned. MH_

He drummed his fingers on his leg while he waited for a response- because he knew one was coming. Sherlock would outlive God Himself trying to have the last word.

Sure enough, his phone vibrated in his hand and Mycroft looked down at the screen.

_I know you won't be surprised when I say I don't believe you. You're manipulative and selfish enough to do just that. SH_

_Your new secretary has been by to bring my things to me. Perhaps you won't be inclined to shag this one since you hired a female, as I suggested. Could you make it any more obvious you cannot control yourself? SH_

Sherlock's smugness at being proven right was almost palpable and Mycroft frowned at the small screen, trying to think of a properly scathing comeback for his nuisance of a younger sibling. All he could think of were things too cruel to say and he didn't want to hurt Sherlock, no matter how much the man needled him.

Finally, he sighed and put his phone back in his breast pocket, determined not to row with his little brother while said little brother was in the hospital, recovering from a vicious stabbing and near death experience. Sherlock was merely angry at being forced to stay in the hospital for the next week. Mycroft could excuse his bad mood and refrain from saying what he longed to in order to shut his brother up. He was an adult, after all, and what was the point of being an adult if one…

His phone vibrated in his pocket and Mycroft, after sighing, retrieved it and opened the message.

_I do wonder how much you paid the last secretary to stay hushed up. No doubt staying quiet about such…sordid activities costs. Will England still be solvent afterwards? SH_

* * *

Sherlock stared vacantly up at the hospital room ceiling and _ached_ for something to do, something with which to focus his mind. He was so _bored_ and there were still six….more…_days_ of this nothingness. Getting well- bah! He could do this at Greg's flat and actually have something entertaining to work with, not remain here, flat on his back and _heal_. Greg, however, was adamant Sherlock stay in the hospital and follow all the doctor's orders, even the stupid ones- of which there were many. Sherlock knew Greg was blaming himself for his being injured, which was senseless, but Sherlock didn't care to correct him at the moment. He was too angry at Greg to bother.

Greg had texted earlier to say he would be by before his shift but Sherlock, in a fit of pique at learning that Greg was going on a date with Mycroft, had told him to fuck off and not bother, he didn't want to see Greg. At the time he had meant it, but now he was starting to regret his earlier outburst. Even if he were angry with him, a visit from Greg could have brought mental stimulation in the form of a case or even, Sherlock grimaced, half-way intelligent conversation. Damn if he would text Greg back and _ask_ him to come, though. Sherlock would rather suffer in silence.

To entertain himself, Sherlock had been annoying his brother for the last thirty minutes. This was usually an amusing activity anyway, but it was doubly so today because Mycroft was obviously trying to be nice and not firing insults back, no doubt feeling sorry for Sherlock's being stabbed. This gave Sherlock license to say whatever he wanted, smirking to himself as he lay in his bed, as well as make him feel he was doing something illicit since this was texting and Greg wouldn't go through his texts to make sure he was being nice to his brother.

_I do wonder how much you paid the last secretary to stay hushed up. No doubt staying quiet about such…sordid activities costs. Will England still be solvent afterwards? SH_

Sherlock sent the message and was smugly thinking of a victory won over his brother when the message alert on his phone pinged. Sherlock brought the screen to eye level and stared at the message.

_I would remind you, little brother, of who I am currently dating. You may continue to harass me about my "sordid" sex life, however the Detective Inspector may take exception to such behavior from you. MH_

* * *

"What happened to your phone?"

Sherlock ignored Greg and disliked the fact that he was unable to cross his arms over his chest or stomach. It made sulking indignantly rather hard but Sherlock tried to convey his displeasure with a truly hideous glare.

"It's all busted up. It wasn't that way last night was it?" Greg turned the mobile over in his hands, examining the cracked screen and dented and banged up sides. It looked as if it had been hurled against something with surprising force, again and again. He cleared his throat and looked at the pouting young man in front of him. "I can put in a request and get you a new one. About time the department pays you for everything you do, mate."

There was still a brooding silence. Greg wished Sherlock would just say something, anything, get whatever was bothering him off his chest. Unlikely to happen. Besides, Greg knew what was bothering him but he didn't like the idea of bringing this up to. Seemed he'd have to, though.

"Me and your brother're going on a date Friday night."

"As I have already been informed." Sherlock sniffed, unable to roll onto his side and present Greg with his back, effectively ending the conversation. Being injured was so inconvenient.

"Listen, I know you don't like the idea-"

"Who said I disliked the idea of yourself and my brother dating? If anything, I would think your ex-wife would be the one who should be concerned."

Greg sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Sherlock, cut the shit. You don't like it. Why?"

"Because my brother isn't like the other baby-faced men you've dated who had daddy issues and only wanted a quick fuck." Sherlock hissed, turning his head to face Greg, still glaring venomously. "Mycroft's experienced, he's clever, and he will twist you into the mold he wants you to conform to without caring if such a thing is what you want or not. My brother is unable to truly care about anyone besides himself and if you believe he will care about you, for even a passing moment, you're an idiot. Getting involved with Mycroft will be the biggest mistake you ever make in your life."

There was silence after Sherlock's speech, only punctuated by the steady beep-beep-beep of his heart monitor. He and Greg looked at each other, engaging in a small battle of wills, until Greg finally sighed and looked away.

"I don't think your brother's as evil as you think, Sherlock. I-"

"Then you're an idiot."

Greg closed his mouth and looked at Sherlock who turned his head away from him, refusing to acknowledge Greg's presence.

"Your brother's just a _man_, Sherlock. He makes mistakes just like everyone else but-"

"Don't. Speak. To. Me. About. Mycroft." Each word was bitten off, full of hate and venom.

Greg, conceding defeat, stood and started to leave, but lingered at the door.

"I'll have someone bring you a new phone and a few old unsolved cases later today."

There was no movement from the bed and Greg, sighing, left.

* * *

_If you hurt Gregory Lestrade, I will hunt you down myself and destroy you. SH_

_Dear me, wherever did this over-protectiveness come from? I would remind you Gregory is a grown man, Sherlock, and capable of looking after himself. MH_

_In order to quiet your mind, I will confess that I have no intention of harming Gregory. Quite the opposite. MH_


	6. Chapter 6

**A thousand apologies for leaving this story for so long. I'm amazed that I have so many people following and really, you guys are the best. Thanks ever so much!**

**Herein we have a date- a Mystrade date!**

* * *

Greg fidgeted nervously for what felt like the 11th time with his tie, trying to make it look straight, but despite his best efforts it kept hanging rather lopsided. He sighed and tried again…and again….but nothing he did made it look any better. Finally, checking the time and knowing Mycroft would be arriving soon, he nixed the tie and smoothed his shirt down.

There, that looked better. At least it didn't look like he was unable to properly dress himself.

When the doorbell rang, Greg actually jumped and was promptly embarrassed of the way he was acting.

You'd think I've never been on a date with a man before, he thought wryly as he grabbed his wallet and shrugged into his jacket, hollering out that he was coming. _Ah, _a sneaky voice in his head piped up_, but you've never been on a date with __Mycroft__. Whole different ball game there, dear._

"_My brother isn't like the other baby-faced men you've dated who had daddy issues and only wanted a quick fuck."_

Greg's nerves suddenly jumped into over-drive and he quickly shook out his suddenly trembling hands in an effort to make them stop. He breathed deeply, puffing his cheeks out. He could do this. He'd been with Mycroft loads of times before. What was so different from this time?...besides the fact they could be shagging before the night was out?

Oh, right, there was always that.

_Fuck._

When Greg opened the door, he was surprised to find, instead of Mycroft, Mycroft's chauffer who smiled and greeted him professionally, then led him down to the waiting black car. He opened his door for him and Greg slid into the back, for once on his own volition and not being abducted in order to "talk." It was a nice change.

"Good evening, Gregory."

"Hey," Greg grinned, looking over at Mycroft and instantly feeling like a shit. The younger man was impeccably dressed in a suit _and_ tie, hair smoothed back, waistcoat buttoned, and shoes polished to a high shine. He looked handsome, well put together, and was almost oozing money and charm. Greg had thought he looked pretty good before leaving his flat but, compared to Mycroft Holmes, obviously not.

He was uncomfortably aware that his suit, though nice enough, was almost three years out of date, he wore no tie (and now he wished he'd put more effort into fixing it), didn't even _own_ a waistcoat, and his shoes had scuff marks on them that seemed glaringly obvious now. And knowing Mycroft, he'd see it all and deduce and draw conclusions. Greg shifted in his seat as Mycroft looked at him and felt like a bug under a microscope- highly judged and waited to be found lacking, then squashed.

"You look handsome." Mycroft said and Greg looked at him, wondering if he were making fun of him. He looked sincere, though, and there was a certain calculating look in his eye that called to Greg, made his muscles clench in answering desire.

"Uh, thanks. You do too." He said and Mycroft smiled. Greg found himself smiling back and just like that…his nerves evaporated. This was _Mycroft_ who, though entirely mysterious and sometimes a bit creepy, was the same guy he'd talked to in the past. There wasn't anything different about him now that they were on a date.

By the time they reached the restaurant, any awkwardness between them had gone away. They chatted like old friends- Mycroft entertaining him with stories from his childhood involving embarrassing incidents concerning Sherlock.

"I'm sure you've got loads. Can't imagine he was the best kid." Greg said, unable to really imagine Sherlock as a precocious little boy but knowing he had to have been once. Right? It wasn't possible for the git to have always been the way he was now: insufferably arrogant and terrifyingly brilliant.

Mycroft sighed, his eyes softening at the memories. "You have no idea. There was one time in particular when he decided the best course of action to alleviate his boredom during the summer holidays would be to set fire to my bed and attempt to keep the resulting blaze from spreading. Needless to say, he was unable to do so."

Greg laughed as Mycroft took a sip of wine. "I lost quite a lot in that fire. Sherlock did as well. For some reason his entire chemistry set and pirate hat found its way into the blaze, along with my mobile, before we both realized we were about to burn our house down in our childishness and called the fire department."

Greg tried to imagine a younger version of Mycroft (sans waistcoat and ever present umbrella) and Sherlock shouting at each other and throwing the other's possessions into the fire as the blaze raged out of control behind them. He wondered if they hadn't gotten along even then, or if that had just been one time in particular when they'd fought. He decided not to ask, even though he was curious, not wanting to bring up bad memories on their first date.

"I got into some pretty bad fights with my siblings- never almost burned the house down, though." Greg said, shaking his head and Mycroft smirked.

"That's nothing in comparison to the tapioca pudding incident when Sherlock was thirteen."

Afterwards, Mycroft wanted to hear about Greg's wilder uni days and when he first joined the force. Greg, older and wiser and therefore just a bit ashamed of his misspent youth, tried to give him a sanitized version and leave out the truly embarrassing parts, not wanting to make Mycroft think he was an idiot. He was pretty sure that Mycroft could see through his bullshitting easily, though, but he thankfully didn't comment on it.

"Me and my mates would all do pub crawls on the weekends when I wasn't working," Greg said, omitting the fact that there had been much, much more actual "crawling" involved than the name implied, "and this one weekend my best mate, Darren, had had a fight with his girlfriend and they'd split up. So, we all decided to cheer him up and have a few drinks," Greg decided not to mention the fact that this was the one time he'd drank so much he'd thrown up all over the girl he'd been trying to get off with at the time...and been so drunk he hadn't even been embarrassed. He had _laughed_ about it. To the girl's face.

"Well, we were all out, laughing, having fun, not really caring and all that, just stupid kids, and the next thing we know, we can't find Darren. We look everywhere, call his mobile, still laughing our heads off, thinking it's the funniest thing ever happened. Finally, it turns out he'd decided to go back to his girlfriend only he'd taken the wrong train, then another wrong train, then another and ended up halfway to the middle of nowhere before we managed to turn him round. Took us eight hours to find him and we were all wasted the entire time. Surprised we didn't get arrested."

"Indeed." Mycroft was smiling at him. "And now you arrest young punks just like yourself."

"Yeah, well, I try and help'em too. I mean, I understand why they'd do it and how they think it's cool. Not that most of'em wanna talk to an "old" copper they think has a stick up his bum."

Mycroft laughed and Greg enjoyed the sound before prodding him.

"Well, come on."

"What?"

"What's the craziest thing you've ever done?"

"I have already told you the worst things Sherlock and I did as children."

"Yeah, but that's different. What's the stupidest thing _you've_ ever done?"

"It's not fit for polite dinner conversation." Mycroft said primly, cutting another piece of his steak with precise movements and not meeting Greg's eyes.

Greg snorted. "I bet you've never done anything crazy in your life."

"I can assure you I have."

"Really? What was it then?

Mycroft gave Greg a closed, secretive smile but Greg wasn't buying it. He knew when he was being bullshitted, and Mycroft Holmes was totally lying. He'd never done anything wild or out of control in his life. He probably folded his underwear. Greg allowed a brief few seconds to think of Mycroft in his underwear before focusing back on the conversation.

"What was it? Gone out once without your umbrella?" Greg teased, eyes gleaming, and Mycroft glared at him.

"I had better things to do with my time than go out and do something irredeemably foolish."

Greg wasn't put off by either the words or the intimidating glare Mycroft leveled in his direction.

"Lucky you met me when you did, Mycroft." Greg said, mock-sighing and letting the subject drop, turning back to his meal. "I'll teach you how to live a little."

"If you think you're man enough, Gregory."

Greg almost choked on his wine.

What Greg liked about Mycroft was that he was so _easy_ to talk to, which was a bit surprising all things considered. He didn't get offended when Greg accidently cursed, was able to trade barbs and digs back right along with him, and it was almost like having dinner with a mate…except there was this great underlying sexual tension and innuendo to some of the things they both said to each other that provided a spark no mates were ever going to get from a dinner. There were also the heated glances Mycroft threw his way every now and then, and the way Greg responded to them, his heart picking up and face flushing, that definitely had _nothing_ to do with friendship.

Over dessert, Mycroft provided tantalizing hints at what sort of job he actually held for the government and laughed at all Greg's guesses that generally involved things he'd seen from James Bond films and the sci-fi channel.

"Come on, you can't tell me that's not real. They've gotta get it from somewhere." Greg argued convincingly as the last of the dishes were cleared away.

"Yes, it's called imagination, Gregory." Mycroft said drily, though really secretly amused at Greg's enthusiasm and humor, the way he knew his ideas were ridiculous and was only making them up to get Mycroft to laugh. It was touching, in a way, and Mycroft found himself smiling as Greg's guesses got even more outlandish as they made their way to the car.

"You investigate alien encounters- no, wait, I've got it. Sherlock's an alien and you're his handler. Makes sense when it comes right down to it. _All_ the facts are there."

"I shudder to think of what so-called "facts" you could use to substantiate that claim. I begin to wonder how you managed to make it to Detective Inspector."

Greg grinned. "I'm just a charming guy."

He waited until Mycroft, rolling his eyes, had climbed into the backseat.

"And I did _tons_ of sexual favors."

* * *

On the way to the theater, they kept talking (Greg couldn't remember ever talking this much on a date before) and it turned out they had even more in common. They watched the same movies, read the same books, and even liked some of the same foods- though Greg thought Mycroft's tastes were a bit too pompous because some of what he mentioned Greg couldn't even _pronounce_. They laughed about this, though, and Mycroft didn't look down his nose at Greg for having "low" tastes.

Their date began to feel even more "date-ish" as Mycroft held the door open for Greg at the theater and walked beside him with his hand at the small of his back. Greg felt only a bit awkward at the attention. It wasn't that he hadn't dated a man before or that he felt uncomfortable with people seeing him with a man, it was just that most of his "dates" with men had involved much more shagging and less…_dating_. It was nice, though, he thought as he and Mycroft settled into their seats (only the very best, of course). It was something he could definitely get used to.

Their thighs touched during the play and Greg wondered if he were being stupid to get excited by that. They weren't teenagers in a movie theater that would snog and hold hands as soon as the lights went out, after all. They were two men in their thirties for Christ sake…but the idea was now firmly lodged in Greg's brain and he looked at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. He was apparently absorbed in the play, not bothering to look at Greg, unaware that his date had suddenly regressed to being in high school again.

Greg clenched his hands into fists and kept to his side of the arm rest. Would Mycroft even _want_ to do that? Nah, probably not. Get real Greg, he's much too posh to think of that sort of thing. He'd probably be scandalized. Greg could just imagine the _look_ Mycroft would give him if he tried to hold his hand like some insipid schoolgirl and that put paid to any unwelcome emotions he was feeling about doing it.

* * *

The awkwardness, which had been absent the whole of the date, came back once they were in Mycroft's car and heading back to Greg's flat. The tension felt so thick that Greg was sure he could cut it with a knife and all because of the unspoken question: What now? Should he invite Mycroft into his flat? The date had gone well enough that yeah, he probably _should_ but did he _want_ to? Surprisingly, the answer was…no, he didn't want to.

It wasn't that the date had been bad, or that he wasn't attracted to Mycroft, or that he didn't want to shag the posh and arrogant man- because hell yes, he _really_ did. It was just… This wasn't the first homosexual relationship Greg had been in since his divorce. The words Mycroft had thrown at him that first day during his abduction, "latent homosexual tendencies," had struck a chord and Greg had…experimented, with great results. He wasn't some trembling, shy virgin that would need to be guided through everything. Even Sherlock had been able to deduce that Greg had had sex with men, enjoyed it, and wasn't in any way hesitant or repressed about it.

But there was such a thing as rushing something, and Greg, for all his experience and years, wanted to be more than just some cheap shag Mycroft Holmes had one night then didn't call the next day. If he were being honest, and Greg usually tried to be honest with himself, he wanted to be much more than that to Mycroft, a lot more.

After tonight and enjoying Mycroft's company and looks and conversation, he wanted to be everything to Mycroft.

So when Mycroft climbed out after him and offered to "walk him to the door," Greg felt almost sick with the idea that he was turning him down and worried that Mycroft wouldn't understand the reason why. He didn't feel that he could just explain it to him without sounding sappy and stupid, and he winced at the very idea.

"Um, I had a great time." Greg said, turning around when they got to his door, grimacing internally when that came out sounding too corny but Mycroft merely smiled.

"I'm very glad." He entwined his fingers with Greg's and Greg jumped a bit at the unexpected but very welcome contact. Mycroft's hands were cool, soft, like silk against his own and he wondered how they'd feel against other parts of his body.

"Gregory…may I kiss you now?" Mycroft's voice came out soft and low and, at Greg's nod, he smiled and leaned forward, bringing their lips together in a chaste and too-brief kiss.

"Goodnight, Gregory." Mycroft said softly, pulling away and trailing his fingertips down Greg's face as he stepped away. Greg's mind was just slightly jammed and he had to blink a few times before he found his voice.

"Uh…night, Mycroft."

* * *

Greg opened the door to his flat, grinning like an idiot…then almost had a heart attack as he yelled and grabbed up the nearest object (which happened to be a potted plant but he _totally_ could have used it as a weapon) when he found someone already in his flat, sprawled on the sofa under the duvet, indolently watching telly.

Sherlock was staring at the flickering screen, his eyes too focused and intent to actually be watching the show that blasted from the speakers. He glanced over at Greg, then away, then his eyes zoomed back, widening as he looked Greg over from head to toe, obviously deducing the entire evening from a single glance. Greg frowned.

"How'd you get out of the hospital?"

Sherlock refused to respond and insolently turned his eyes back to the telly.

Greg sighed, throwing his head back and groaning at the ceiling. "Know what? I don't care. I just had a really great evening and don't want it ruined just yet. Just…don't wake me up in the morning. It's my day off."

He was almost to his bedroom when Sherlock called down the hall.

"Your date went well."

Greg paused, thought of not responding but knew Sherlock would then do something horrible to get his attention, so he turned and walked back into the sitting room.

"Yeah, yeah it went well. Really well."

Sherlock's eyes turned back to him and Greg wondered what he saw. He wondered if Sherlock could only deduce where they had gone, what they had done, the boring, normal aspects of the date…or if he could deduce Greg's emotional state, the arousal, the happiness, the adrenaline rush from the snog downstairs, the way Mycroft had held his hand. Not that he would _ever_ ask Sherlock that, but Greg still wondered.

Sherlock opened his mouth, then quickly closed it again, turning away from Greg and biting his lip.

"Good."

"What?" Greg asked, frowning, unable to hear Sherlock over the blaring of the television.

Sherlock sighed, wincing when this put pressure on his still tender stitches, and turned the telly off, plunging the room into complete darkness. Greg blinked as his eyes adjusted and he put out his hands to steady himself in case he blundered into something. He didn't relish the idea of cleaning glass out of the carpet at well past midnight.

"I _said_…good." Came the peevish reply from the darkness.

"Oh. Thanks" Greg didn't know what else to say to that and he dithered on the spot for a moment before slowly making his way down the hall in the darkness.


End file.
